


and like the dawn, you broke the dark.

by bottlefame_brewglory



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Alternate Universe, And Me - Freeform, Angst, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), First Kiss, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, I've ruined my life with this AU, Love, M/M, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Slow Burn, So let me ruin you too, by both Crowley and Aziraphale, it's about the yearning, this is some peak dumb ass shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22506400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlefame_brewglory/pseuds/bottlefame_brewglory
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley do not meet on the wall. Heaven is plunged into darkness shortly after.Another 6000 year tale is told.(Or, the Monsters Inc AU I didn't know I needed.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	1. your skin was gilded with the gold of the richest kings.

_The prologue._

_“I was sleeping in the garden when I saw you first,  
_  
_He'd put me deep, deep under so that he could work,  
_  
_And like the dawn you broke the dark and my whole earth shook,  
_  
_I was sleeping in the garden when I saw you.”_  
  
– like the dawn, the oh hellos

The blossoms are what first kindle the attraction, the rampant _curiosity_ , that all but slithers through the apple-red blood of her body, a kiss of something like hellfire tickling the back of her throat. It is the phenomenon that gave birth to nebulas, that nestled fires and molten ore into the inky velvet of the night sky, that ensured a million-lightyear freestyle dive into a pool of boiling sulphur.

_What’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil, anyway?_

Pink flowers bloom to red fruit, the crisp flesh yielding beneath the grooves of her teeth, the juice, _oh_ the sweetest of treachery ( _the taste of free will_ ) dribbles down the crease of her chin.

Thunderclouds are what follows, the very first, a tumultuous tumble of grey, towering over the walls of Eden, a flicker of white fire, of _lightning_ , throwing the mountain of sorrow into startling _brilliance_ , as if for the last time to display the sheer _glory_ of the garden and everything that must now be missed.

It is the _East_ that kindles the attraction, the rampant _curiosity_ , that all but slithers through the apple-red blood of his serpentine body, a kiss of hellfire tingling amongst his scales. He is the phenomenon that gave birth to nebulas, that nestled fires and molten ore into the inky velvet of the night sky, he is curiosity incarnate, the child of a million-lightyear freestyle dive into a pool of boiling sulphur.

But it is the _East_ that captures the yellow-stained eyes of the Serpent of Eden, it is the Eastern Gate and it’s _Guardian_. As if the lightning that spills across the storm-sea sky dare compete with the dandelion-kissed angel, the _principality_ , that stands so very high above it. White wings stretch upwards, stark against the darkening dusk, angelic attention riveted on the humans that now stumble their way into the darkness, _exiled_ , and yet not _alone_.

The weeping begins, the clouds in mourning, grief tumbling to the dry desert that rings the garden. Petrichor, the first gift borne from the original sin, swells from below, wafts across the soil of earth, across black scales and a red belly, until it rises and rise and _rises_ , grazing silky white plumes and settling on porcelain skin.

And the serpent raptly watches as the Angel of the Eastern Gate reaches up into the rain with something like wonder, _reverence_ , raindrops dribbling down his fingertips like the sweetest of treachery. Barefoot and unguarded, the angel stands on the wall, and if it were not for the tug of petulance lancing through the snake’s slim slither of a body, something _calling for return_ , it would have been all but helpless to glide up the glory-gilded walls of the garden and rest by that angel’s side. Instead, it descends beneath the cool soil and dense rock of earth, the clammy cloying stench of rot and _Hell_ drowning away the petrichor and the _wonder_.


	2. let that fever make the water rise.

_“Red sun rises like an early warning,  
_   
_The Lord's gonna come for your first born son,  
_   
_His hair's on fire and his heart is burning,  
_   
_So go to the river where the water runs,  
_   
_Wash him deep where the tides are turning.”  
_

_– bottom of the river, Delta Rae_

_And the Lord said to Cain, “Where is Abel your brother?” and he said, “I do not know: am I my brother’s keeper?”_

Her grace was the sun’s rays atop the wall of Eden, caressing the soft skin at the back of his neck, a _warmth_ that was nestled within, a light that cherished, a _blessing_. From the beginning, from the moment She had greeted him with a soft smile and gentle touch, it had been with Aziraphale, a constant and steady thing, _unwavering_.

And now, as Her beloved Earth drank at the liquid of Her creation, the burgundy of Abel soaking into the rust of the soil, it _burned_ , humming in sorrow, a feeling almost like drowning, a welling _misery_ turning Grace to _grief_.

A cacophony of sound sung throughout the enormity of Heaven, a choir of angelic anguish, as what was once _life_ and Her _love_ , turned to _agony_ , if only for a moment, searing through the angels of Heaven with divine strength.

The grief, sweltering in its intensity, had driven Aziraphale’s corporation to his knees. Cain had stood with flaming sword in hand, rebellion riddled along the curve of his spine, sardonic sin spilling from between his lips as God looked down upon him. If one were to cast their mind back, if one had survived the first Great War, they would have gazed at Cain, heat rippling amongst the dunes of the desert around him, and seen Lucifer, a snarl lashed across his features before he tumbled backwards into Hell, Her Grace stripped of him, molten gold torn from his very being and scattered amongst the universe.

_Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, where is the flaming sword I gave you, to guard the gate of Eden?_

The answer: an omission, the first lie to have graced the earth, an inexorable catalyst in the form of steel and flame, painted with good intentions, and now sealed with ruby blood.

And yet, the _anguish_ of Eve’s scream as Aziraphale laid Abel’s broken body at her feet, was almost enough to undo him. The Almighty’s silence preferable over the rivulets of sorrow that carved its way down sweet Eve’s cheeks, her remaining innocence, after the sweet _tang_ of forbidden fruit, all but stripped away, the hellfire-curiosity that kindled at the back of her throat reduced to the suffocation of ash.

With stones stacked upon his body, Abel had been laid to rest, Adam’s arm tight around the earthquake-shake of Eve’s shoulders. Aziraphale had soon fled, had reached past the guilt that clambered up his throat, prickled at his eyes, had reached within to find Her grace and let it wrap around him, tug him back to Heaven before the gasping sobs of remorse could choke him.

It is when he arrives, that he realises the chaos. The Host rustles around him, hordes of angelic might _pulsing_ in confusion, in near tar-pitch darkness. If they had been anything else, the taste of terror would have tainted the air, but for the moment, there is only murmuring, the Arch Angels standing at the head, wings spread wide, authority roiling from the gleam of their haloes, and patience, as if waiting.

Gabriel’s violet eyes are _glowing_ , and something within Aziraphale _bristles_ at the sight, as if the luminosity is a warning. His wings flex in response, adrenaline dancing along the delicate veins of his corporation, a prickle teasing at the nape of his neck.

She is no longer with them.

The light of Heaven has been snuffed and suffocated, buried beneath stone with Abel’s corpse for company.

And though Her Grace still simmers within, it feels duller, as if She is at a great distance, an impenetrable wall of Her own devising, oil-slick around Her aura. It is unnerving, and yet the Host remains steadfast in its belief of the Divine Plan. It looks to the Arch Angels and it _waits_ right along with them _._

There is nothing.

Heaven has succumbed to darkness, and in moments as the regiments of the Almighty eventually settle into stillness, it will succumb to silence. A pulsing, _unnerving_ quiet, until a breeze wafts around them, putrid and _living_ , the movement of brimstone, staggering and _sharp_.

Aziraphale can taste it, it coats the back of his throat and _seizes_ , the muscles of his gullet contracting and _choking_ , the burn of sulphur rising from below, through the ether, and singeing the Host. It is followed by heat, a burning that with it should bring light, but instead marries the darkness, iron-ore dancing with tar, a murky dim that clings at the white of the angels’ robes, at their wings, at porcelain skin.

And then there is noise, guttural _rasps_ and salivating snarls, the unsteady lurching and reeling of a _horde_ , as it spills amongst the throng of angels, glistening boils and sharp _teeth_. Creatures flex and gurgle, claws scuttling on the smooth polished floors of Heaven, and though Aziraphale can feel the uncertainty rippling throughout his brothers and sisters, the Arch Angels stand steadfast, expressions, though grim, remaining resolute.

Beady eyes gaze at Aziraphale as they shuffle past, insects scuttling over swollen flesh, nuzzling into the crooks and crannies of their carriers. Puss oozes from orifices, cloying-yellow drizzling against glistening tar, the closest to white a demon can hope to reach; a yellow so poisoned it’s tinged with green. The demons’, seemingly having no issue navigating the gloom, split from the Host, two sides now sharing the space of Heaven, a writhing mess of ethereal and occult.

A flash of red draws Aziraphale’s attention, almost as if it is a beacon in the dark, a tangle of sunset-fire amongst the dim, before his focus is drawn to the Dukes of Hell, grimy and sinister, standing alongside the purity of the Arch Angels. The Metatron is noticeably absent, a gaping wound, a missing link, that Aziraphale is all too aware of.

Beelzebub speaks first, from what Aziraphale can gather, the angel’s gaze reaching over the hordes before him to alight upon a look of indifference smeared across the Prince of Hell’s festering features, as impassive as ever. They stand before Gabriel, neck craned back, the occasional fly from their aura settling upon the Arch Angel’s face, a flicker of annoyance rippling along his sledgehammer jawline.

The tension that emanates from the leaders is palpable, can be seen in the shifting of wings, both glistening white, and velvet black. There are murmurings of the Great Plan, a proposition that spills forth from the duplicitous smirk of Gabriel, a convoy of dutiful nods following in its wake, and though Heaven is blanketed with dark, Aziraphale can still see the glint of Sandalphon’s golden teeth, the most eager of all.

And like the brilliance of lightning that had thrown the dawning of dusk into disarray the first evening Adam and Eve had stumbled into the wilderness, their child’s-bane flaming in their grasp, Aziraphale feels a ripple of _cautioning_ interweave into his Grace. A single flash of alarm, as if She had returned for just the moment to pierce Aziraphale with terror, a _warning_.

No other angel stirred, as if the message had been for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale _alone_.

It is then that Gabriel steps forth, behemoth-broad shoulders square as he looks out upon the wriggling mass of demons, and the rigid-postured angels. Beelzebub sidles themselves to be alongside him, even footing falling between them, as if Heaven and Hell have now become aligned.

“The Earth isn’t going to just end itself,” Gabriel announces, hands splaying outwards towards the throngs before him.

A scattering of murmurs breaks out amongst the demons, hissing and snarling, _sniggers_ , multiple pairs of eyes glowing in the darkness, the occult forces all too aware at the precarious situation Heaven has found itself in.

“The Great Plan has been _written_ ,” the Arch Angel continues, “all of you are aware of this.”

Superiority drips from Gabriel’s glowing grin, a not-so-hidden strength in the pillar of his spine, the flex of his fingers, and with it Aziraphale feels tension ripple throughout the cords of his muscles, a wariness borne from Gabriel’s frigid kindness. His fingers wring behind his back, knuckles flexing white, as his wings bristle around him, a shield of snow-silk.

“And, as my colleague, Sandalphon, so aptly put,” and here the Arch Angel brightens, almost nauseatingly so, “ _You can’t have a war, without war.”_

The statement is met with a suffocating silence, and an understanding dawns amongst the gathered, visible in the shift of feathers, the shuffle of feet. The Duke’s of Hell and the Arch Angel’s remain impassive, indecipherable, as Gabriel ploughs onwards.

“After discussions with our associates, it has become clear that the Demon’s of Hell are able to harvest human terror and convert it into power.”

Aziraphale watches in blossoming horror, as his brother’s and sister’s nod their heads, so readily accepting of the Divine Plan and all that it entails. There is no resistance when Michael steps forth, elaborates on the collaboration between Heaven and Hell, explains in her dull drone that children’s screams are the most powerful, justifies that it was the folly of children, of Cain, that has driven the Almighty beyond their reach. The demons are capable of instilling this terror, and therefore a joint effort will be made to capture it, to _convert_ it into _power_ for Heaven.

Uriel elaborates on the _partnership_ , that each demon will have an angel handler, a way to monitor that no occult forces run astray, _lurking_ amongst the halls of Heaven. That sections in every angels’ quarters will be consecrated, a way to keep the beasts at bay. An uproar begins to build, a steady murmur filling with the promise of thunder, a rumble of apprehension rolling over those gathered. But a plan is being put into place, rules laid out, the assurances that _it has been written_ , a melody spilling around them.

Acceptance steadily creeps into consciousness, a salve over the anxiety that thrums just below the surface of Aziraphale’s flesh, faith in the Almighty, faith in the _faith_ She has placed in the Arch Angels quelling any misgivings in regard to the treatment of the humans, to Her _children_. The taste of brimstone still lacing his tongue a reminder that the Almighty and Divine Plan are not to be questioned, the smell of sulphur singeing any doubt away.

“For if Heaven has no power for the War,” Gabriel intones, a daft naivety laced throughout his words, his expression smug, “How would we win it?”

Volcanic is the reaction, the stench of brimstone an _eruption_ amongst the assembled, the Dukes of Hell rounding on the Arch Angels, the spittle flying from fangs laced along vile insults and _fury_ , a truly _demonic_ reaction to such a blatant insult. It is clear a deal has been made, bargained, that with the demons in Heaven, intel can be gathered by both sides, alliances and weaknesses exploited. The closer they are, the easier to eliminate.

And yet, appearances need to be kept.

Aziraphale watches, back pressed to the wall as the crowd jostles, a riot close to blooming amongst hereditary enemies, embers sparking to the floor, the threat of Hellfire only smothered by the promise of a Holy Water retaliation. Gabriel and Beelzebub have entered the fray, are talking down their soldiers, Gabriel’s tone _particularly_ patronising.

It is then that Aziraphale notices the demon to his side, a cacophony of edges and angles, sprawled like a question against the wall, the tangle of forbidden-red a waterfall between the pillars of his wings. Eyes like smudged ichor gaze out at the swarm before them, a smirk cut across his features almost as sharp as the razor-edge of his jaw.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”

Awe sits in his throat, a certain disbelief at the nonchalant tone, the careless tilt of the demon’s head, rust-ringlets tumbling away to reveal a snake, etched with black. It is the creature this demon has been given; a symbol that marks him as _Fallen_. It is the Serpent of _Eden_ , and for a moment, Aziraphale finds himself thoroughly disarmed, a soft exhale whistling between a nervous smile his only response, until he manages,

“Sorry, what was that?”

Luminescent eyes flicker to Aziraphale, wiry frame following, until the demon is perched against the wall and his full attention is riveted on the angel.

“I said,” and Aziraphale can almost _taste_ the sarcasm spilling from between the too-sharp incisors, “Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”

“Y-yes, it did, rather,” he replies, returning his gaze to the fray, watching with steadily building dread as Gabriel edges closer, disgruntled angels and irate demons _fuming_ in his wake.

“Bit of an overreaction if you ask me, first offence and everything,” the demon comments, the corners of his mouth tripping over a shrug, as if the neurons of his corporation by-passed the insouciant sling of his shoulders to settle into the lines of his lips.

“He did _kill_ his brother,” Aziraphale replies, brow creased.

“No, no, not _that_ ,” is the snappish reply, aquiline nose wrinkling with a sneer, “the _apple_ business. What’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil, anyway?”

“Well, it must have _been_ bad,” and here there is a brief pause, a polite smile tugging across the features of the demon, a slow nod, and a murmured, _Crawly,_ “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have tempted them into it.”

A lapse of silence falls between them, a safe haven from the arguments that ignite like wildfire around them, the kindling and flint so clearly Gabriel, a flame borne from smug superiority and a surplus of self-righteousness, as he breezes through the masses, Beelzebub not far behind, the storm-cloud tinge to the seemingly rotten flesh of their corporation matching the buzz of thunder in their voice.

“Not very subtle of the Almighty though, fruit tree in the middle of a garden with a “Don’t Touch” sign,” Crawly continues, and Aziraphale can hear the curiosity-laced consonants, a thirst for understanding all but _bleeding_ into the demon’s tone. “Why not put it on top of a high mountain? Or on the _moon_? Makes you wonder what God’s really planning.”

The reaction is _immediate_ , the thrum of adrenaline that courses through his corporation igniting all and every fight or flight response, a chemical reaction that results in a curt,

“Best _not_ to speculate,” and an immediate reassurance to counter the borderline blasphemy, “It’s all part of the Great Plan, it’s not _for_ us to understand. It’s _ineffable_.”

“The great plans _ineffable_?” and there is a certain level of disbelief, of _doubt_ , as if the demon is once more questioning the Divine Plan and all it entails. And with it, with the reservations and misgivings that are so clearly riddled through Crawly’s being, woven like the stolen-supernova red in his hair, something blustering and vociferous swells in Aziraphale, _indignation_ , as if to _counter_ Crawly.

“Exactly. It is beyond understanding, and _incapable_ of being put into words,” he reaffirms, a certain sharp jerk of his head, conviction bleeding into his tone, Her grace still thrumming within him, if muted.

Gabriel is then upon them, greeting Aziraphale with a sycophantic smile, violet gaze grazing over Crawly for the briefest of moments, as he grasps his fellow angel by the shoulder, superiority sinking into his fingertips.

“Ah, Aziraphale!” he proclaims, “You’ll be handling the Demon Crawly.”

A series of cut off syllables, vowels, and consonants spill from the demon in question, as if in protest, before the fossil-resin eyes rise to meet Aziraphale’s gaze, and all the angel can see etched into those crystal-cut features is unabashed surprise.

“It is a fitting way for you to redeem yourself, don’t you think?” Gabriel continues, jostling Aziraphale’s shoulder slightly, as if in encouragement, “After the whole debacle with letting the Serpent of Eden tempt Eve? Seems only right that you prove that you’re able to control him better now.”

If it had been brighter, if Heaven had been at its peak of brilliance, Gabriel would have noticed the gold ring Aziraphale wore flickering in the light as said angel oh so anxiously twisted it upon his finger. Instead, only one set of eyes observed the movement, the _tell_ of Aziraphale’s unease, and they all but mimicked the colour of the jewellery.

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale replies, a breathless anxiety to his tone, as if his lungs had filled with missed expectations, seethed with past failures.

“Other angels have voiced their misgivings about letting these demons lodge with them,” the Arch Angel explains, “but not to worry, all celestial weapons will be available should any of the Fallen disobey whilst in the halls of Heaven.”

With that, the Arch Angel is melding once more back into the crowd, outrage following in his wake, the grip of his fingertips feeling lodged into Aziraphale’s flesh. There is a moment of quiet, a moment disbelief, incredulity crawling its way through the delicate paths of the angel’s veins, and the thought that this demon beside him was now essentially his _roommate_.

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?” Crawly asks, suddenly, his voice breaking through the cacophony of Aziraphale’s thoughts, “You _did_ , it was flaming like anything, what happened to it?”

The sword is a reminder of the Almighty’s distance and of Cain’s betrayal. It stings, the thought of it, a path of misery paved with righteous intentions.

“Lost it already, have you?”

It spills out of him, a _confession_ , desperate to be heard, something that in hundreds of years’ time could have been whispered in the sanctity of a shriving pew, to a man that should be _holier than thou_ , but is now murmured to a demon amongst thousands, a secret between them. 

“I gave it away.”

“You _what?_ ”

“I gave it _away_!” he all but cries, and though remorse blankets his features, exasperation is also smeared across the set of his brows, in the crease of his lips, “There were vicious animals and it was cold out there and she was _expecting!_ ”

Crawly is staring at him, the peak of his incisors, the pink of his tongue, visible as the sharp jut of his jaw flexes in shock, the gleam of his eyes shuttering with his slow blink. It drives Aziraphale to continue babbling, a stream of justifications and explanations. 

“And I said, here you go, flaming sword, don’t thank me and _don’t_ let the sun go down on you here,” he recounts, a knuckle popping beneath his grip, finger twisting. There is one final confession, Aziraphale can feel it clawing its way up his throat, as if it were one of the Fallen clambering its way out of Hell. It is a level of vulnerability he does not want to expose, a weakness this demon could very well exploit.

“And after everything, I think I did the _wrong thing,_ ” he breathes, finally looking from the crowd to meet Crawly’s gaze, to see the small quirk of amusement play at the corner of the demon’s mouth, to see the sharp edges of his expression soften ever so slightly.

“Oh, you’re an angel,” he murmurs, the thunder of his voice honey-dipped, “I don’t think you _can_ do the wrong thing. It’s all just ineffable, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale can’t bring himself to reply, looks away from the demon’s steady gaze to the seething masses before them, the crowd steadily beginning to disperse. The white of his wing grazes black, and the angel is certain that the demon shudders with the magnitude of Aziraphale’s gratitude, as it dances from light to dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don't know why I thought it'd be a good idea to write a Monsters INC au either, but stick with me, yeah? Any kudos and comments are appreciated and feel free to hit me up on Tumblr, I'm at bottlefame-brewglory.
> 
> Much love. x


	3. let the darkness swallow me whole.

_“From the destruction, out of the flame,_

_  
You need a villain, give me a name,_

_  
I'll be your friend in the daylight again,_

_  
There we will be, like an old enemy.”_

_– salt and the sea, the lumineers_

The demons had descended back to the dour depths of Hell, an interval of sorts, time to give the human population the opportunity to rise to a more acceptable level, the birth of innocent children causing the hordes of Hell to salivate, knowing that soon they would be unleashed upon Earth to reap discontent, _terror_ , with the _blessing_ and support of the Arch Angels, of Heaven.

It sat uneasily with Aziraphale, as he waited out the time in his chambers, the darkness of Heaven dwelling and _heavy_ , his movements sluggish, his thoughts _tar-soaked_ , as he gazed into the bleakness of what was once pristine halls, glowing and pure. Other angels moved around him, determined, readying themselves for the occult that would soon slither and crawl through their surroundings, resolution was carved into the set of their brows, an unquestioning loyalty to the Divine Plan and all that it entailed.

Questions were not something Aziraphale could entertain indulging. Any moment of doubt was quickly extinguished by a twist of his fingers, a clearing of his throat, a flutter of golden lashes kissing the crest of his cheekbones. This alliance with Hell dragged the danger of _curiosity_ into stark focus, a reminder of the peril of wonder in the flashing of mud smudged across gold, a sharp smile, and twists of Hellfire-hair.

Crawly had descended with his kin shortly after the meeting between the Dukes of Hell and the Arch Angels, a quick glance to Aziraphale and a subtle wiggle of his fingers in goodbye, before he melded into the darkness, a hint of brimstone following in his wake. And it felt as if Aziraphale was incapable of unlocking his jaw for weeks after, a frustration laced through the tendons in his neck, the softness of his cheeks, something like rebellion smeared into the crevices of his molars, because it seemed that Crawly was _different_ from his fellow demons, an edge to him that was a riddle, a deeper layer that not even boiling sulphur had managed to singe away. It was disconcerting to the angel, left him in a state of wariness, a mystery dwelling in the depths of his mind, nudging at Her grace with poisonous tendrils, reaching out and _asking, asking, asking_.

The darkness lingered on.

The Almighty’s silence remained absolute.

.

.

An entire millennium had passed before the occult forces once more clambered their way back into Heaven, a seething mess of anticipation as they jostled amongst Heaven’s halls, snarled and snarked at their Angel handlers, counterparts. Tensions ratcheted almost immediately, the stench of brimstone and ozone oozing amongst the masses, swirling and dancing, a concoction of competition, of _rivalry_ , the angels and demons separating into their designated pairs.

The human population had risen at an astronomical rate across the planet, children’s innocence ripe for the taking, Heaven, only mere hours from once more being powered into the brilliance of the Almighty’s image, is positively bleeding anticipation. It hangs heavy amongst the halls, this _suspense_ , the Arch Angels and Dukes standing at the head of the assembled, wings twitching as silence falls.

Doors begin to materialise, splintery and harsh, raw wood roughly honed into privacy. A door for each juxtaposed pair; a child no doubt sleeping soundly behind it, knowing nothing of the horrors that await. The demons begin to murmur, the occasional cackle reaching a crescendo of excitement, muscles pulled taut as they await their Duke’s instructions, blackened hands, _claws_ , reaching for the youth that lay beyond the desecrated timber.

Aziraphale feels a tap on his right shoulder, light and brief, it has him turning immediately, the adrenaline of the moment causing his brows to crease, lips to part in question. And, as for the moment, he stares at empty air, a voice sounds to his left.

“Have you been back, since Eden?”

That sharp ribbon of curiosity has returned, all cutting angles, pale skin, and a tumble of vermillion. Child-like innocence is woven throughout the syllables, a purposeful blanket of sincerity, that causes Aziraphale to notice the glittering amusement that glistens in the golden nebula of Crawly’s gaze. Further tension bunches beneath the soft pristine white of Heaven’s robes, ripples along the muscle of Aziraphale’s back, the crest of his shoulders, to sit heavy within his chest as his demon counterpart sidles up alongside him.

“No, of course not,” is his brusque reply, lips pressed into a mere line, eyes flickering over Crawly’s corporation, dragging across the braids interlaced into the scarlet tresses, a frown dipping his brow as he imagines the absurdity of demons plaiting each other’s hair. “Have you?”

Crawly’s response is unintelligible, a cacophony of sound cascading between the pillars of his canines, tripping on the pink of his tongue to spill into the dimness of Heaven. Nimble fingers, as slender and reaching as the branches of a Quercus virginiana, ghost along the spine of a Hell-fire tress interwoven by three. Irises tinted by amber flicker away from the angel, all but _glowing_ with avoidance. It is all the answer Aziraphale needs.

“You _have_ ,” he keeps his tone low, and positively scandalised.

The demon glances at him, jawline working as he takes in Aziraphale’s clear dismay, before the jut of his shoulders tumble into a shrug and a response stumbles from between his parted lips.

“Ah, well, had to pass the time somehow.”

The response is nonchalant, dismissive in its casualness, a spidery hand waving away the interrogation that writhes along the surface of Aziraphale’s tongue, batters at the back of his teeth. Crawly’s attention is riveted on the slab of timber that has materialised before them, and through the haze of apprehension that seems to be swelling within the cavity of his chest, Aziraphale notes the absence of _glee_ in Crawly’s expression, one of the many stark differences between he and his kin.

A rasp of laughter is coughed out beside them, a sound so deeply unsettling that Aziraphale feels a prickle of wariness scuttle across the soft flesh of his corporation. His demon counterpart seemingly sucks a breath between his too-sharp canines before spinning to face the Duke of Hell, whom is now positively _lurking_ beside them. Crawly’s hips are slung at an angle, those spindly fingers carding through the river of red, as a grin tugs across his features, a certain level of arrogance, of _cockiness_ , bleeding into his expression.

“ _Hastur!_ ” he crows, sauntering in front of Aziraphale to fully face the scowling demon before them. Hastur’s features are seemingly smeared into a permanent glower, as if the damp pads of the amphibian currently cradling his straw-adorned skull is squashing his rotting flesh into permanent misery.

“Crawly,” Hastur growls in response, his eyes merely blackened pits, as expressionless as the void of space, “This is all your _fault_.”

Aziraphale startles at that, glances between the two occult forces, his lips parting in surprise, and confusion creasing his brow as Crawly briefly turns back to flick his gaze over Aziraphale, something like guilt flickering across the yellow of his irises.

“Well,” Crawly responds, his hands splaying out either side of his hips, head cocking at an angle, smiling serenely at the fury-incarnate before him, “The Dark Council don’t seem to have a problem with it. Received a commendation actually, from the Seventh Circle.”

Hastur scoffs in response, tar frothing at the corners of his mouth, coating the scabbing wounds that glisten wetly either side, before he turns back to his designated door. It is then that Aziraphale notices the squat Arch Angel by Hastur’s side, hands folded before him. Sandalphon has his head tilted as he considers the door, wormy lips parted to display the glint of gold pressed over and into the crevices of his teeth. He takes no notice of the demons, nor of Aziraphale, just stares dead-eyed at the task before him.

“What does he mean?” Aziraphale murmurs to Crawly as said demon meanders back to be standing by his left, “That this is all _your_ doing?”

He is once more graced with a shrug, a tilt of the demon’s head as he squints into the lowlight, avoiding the angel’s gaze as his tongue grazes along his incisors. There is a moment where Aziraphale believes that perhaps Crawly will ignore him, will exercise some level of demonic discourtesy, and not respond. But as the thought flickers across his consciousness, his counterpart is responding with a seemingly forced casualness, all the surety and arrogance that had tinged his tone when he had been conversing with Hastur having melted into the dim atmosphere.

“Questions were being asked,” he explains, golden gaze dropping to the floor before once more flickering up, “About how Cain came to be in possession of a flaming sword.”

Aziraphale almost chokes, hands immediately brushing against the soft swell of his belly, knuckles popping beneath the anxiety that swells from the pads of his fingertips as they wring at each individual digit. A protest is rising in his throat, of what he is not certain, but his lips are parted and there is panic searing its way throughout his body, adrenaline tingling through muscle and blood.

And then Crawly is gazing at him, meeting the careful fear that has undoubtedly bloomed in the blue of Aziraphale’s eyes, his expression almost grim as he rubs at the back of his neck, looks away.

“It makes sense for a demon to have stolen it, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, “Than for an angel to have given it away.”

The breath that Aziraphale had sucked into his protesting lungs is expelled forcefully, shakily, as his hands drop to his sides. Stunned, he stares at the demon, who is studiously avoiding eye-contact, his slender throat working nervously, fingers drifting towards the braids that riddle the blood-ruby of his locks.

It strikes Aziraphale then, gazing at the demon across from him, that the Serpent of Eden is cunning, _clever_ , a force to be reckoned with, a witty and lively creature of darkness that antagonises his superiors with a smirk and a loose-limbed arrogance. _And_ that there is a nature of _kindness_ nestled below that sulphur-kissed skin, humming beneath the surface, not quite, not _entirely_ , seared away.

Deeply unsettled by the realisation, Aziraphale feels himself physically bristle, the anomaly disturbing the rigidity of his Faith, the terrible threat of questions and _curiosity_ bubbling within the pit of his roiling stomach. He clears his throat and finds that Crawly is looking at him once more, and though terror is licking up the pillar of his spine, he cannot help the nod, nor the shaky smile he offers the demon in return of that steady gaze, understanding laced through the glowing nebula of Crawly’s eyes.

Before Aziraphale can chide himself for his impoliteness, movement ruptures around them, an unspoken order lancing through the assembled as the horde of demons’ step forwards, claws, _tentacles_ ¸ and all manner of _horrid_ appendages grasping and scrambling at the entrances to Earth. Crawly flicks one last look back at Aziraphale, apprehension nestled into the dip at the corners of his mouth, trepidation tucked under the curve of one raised brow, before he strides through the jaggedly hewn slab of timber and into the sleeping place of a poor unsuspecting child.

The silence that descends over Heaven once the demons have dispersed into their designated doors is immense. There is no movement, the other angels’ stationary, poised, determination riddled through the set of their shoulders, an anticipation for the light that will once more gleam throughout the Halls of Heaven seemingly sending a hum of energy into the stillness. Aziraphale is keenly aware of the harsh rasps of air whistling between his lips as he stares ahead, posture rigid, hands folded neatly at the small of his back as he _waits_. His attempts at preparation, his attempts to stifle the horror that squeezes at the soft tissue of his throat, and to focus on the job ahead, is for _nought_.

Because when the screams begin, anguished cries of _terror_ , when they tear through the quiet of Heaven and spur the angels into action, something within Aziraphale _splinters_. He had been there, had laid Abel’s broken body at Eve’s feet, had thought he had seen the true depth of human anguish. But standing here, now, before his and Crawly’s designated door, with unadulterated fear ringing in his ears, Aziraphale realises that the panic that can spill forth from human children, the harsh sobs of fright and horror that spill into the air around him, is insurmountably _worse_.

It is with blurred vision that he begins his tasks, sucks down the threat of guilty gasps, and begins cataloguing the amount of _power_ Crawly is generating from the child through their particular door. The angels, the mighty forces of Heaven, may be held accountable for ensuring that the demons’ they had been partnered with did not run amok throughout the Halls, but they were also responsible for recording and distributing the power emanated from the terror of Earth’s children, they were to ensure that the _brilliance_ of the Almighty’s imaged burned brightly around them.

With the horror of that first day, with Aziraphale’s fingers trembling as he scribed measurements and miracled the harvested power to the Conversion Department, with the children’s screams not yet turning into a drone, a horror one could yet ignore, he does not notice that from he and Crawly’s door, it is suspiciously silent.

.

.

The sheer magnitude of power necessary to illuminate Heaven, to grace the white halls with blinding brightness, was impossible to garner in only a day. It soon became apparent that it would take several months to harvest enough energy; to split the innocence of children into atoms and _light_. Once sufficient power _had_ been created, it would not be essential for the demons to lurch into earth and sow dread. But for now, much to many angels’ and demons’ disapproval and disgust, shared quarters were unavoidable.

And so, it goes that Crawly saunters through door after door, day after day, Aziraphale’s anguish rising with the moon, as the children of earth drift into sleep, only to be driven from their dreams by rotting flesh, sharp canines, _rancid_ breath and all manners of horror.

It quickly becomes apparent that Crawly is _exceedingly_ good at his job, much to the disgruntlement of the demons alongside them. Hastur is _irate_ , and the other demon, a chameleon clinging to his skull, his eyes changing colour almost as much as his emotions, fairly _oozes_ with spite and malice. And though the demons’ bicker, venom spitting from their too-sharp teeth, their angel counterparts remain stoic, barely acknowledging their kin. Uriel works silently, quickly, Ligur proving to be quite adept and _efficient_ , sowing fear and reaping power in only a matter of minutes, before disappearing into the corridors of Heaven. Sandalphon stands silently, beady eyes staring glazed and _empty_ at the door looming before him, because Hastur enjoys taking his _time_ , toys with the children of earth, enjoys _dragging_ out their terror, until he has reached his quota for the day.

Crawly, for his part, disappears for hours. Aziraphale supposes it makes sense, could imagine that the fear Crawly would inspire would be _subtle_ , an animal stalking prey, prowling through the shadows of night, suiting his angular profile, the shock of red that spills between his shoulder blades the briefest of warnings before he is dredging distress from his intended victim, those eyes glowing down at the poor unsuspecting child.

And yet, no noise spills from the crudely cut doorway, the silence almost a _symphony_ amongst the deluge of screams that fills, what the demons of Hell had so _cleverly_ dubbed, the _Scare_ _Floor_. Aziraphale is privately thankful, grateful that he does not have to directly listen to the horrors that are being committed behind that roughly hewn slab of timber. A crease does form in his brows, however, suspicion tugging at the soft tissue between his eyes when he confronts Crawly, the question as to _why_ there is silence emanating from their designated doors; a silence both relieving and _unsettling_.

“It’s the eyes, angel,” he sighs, as if bored, as if it’s _obvious_ , fingers briefly tugging through the tangle of his hair, “They do all the work. It’s more of a _silent_ kind of terror.”

There is not a response that Aziraphale can give as he stares at the demon before him, the creature seemingly carved with precision, the cut of his jaw tilting upwards as Crawly smirks at him, a canine dipping into the soft flesh of his lips as he ostensibly _preens_ beneath Aziraphale’s attention. The eyes in question glitter at the angel, and Aziraphale finds it hard to believe that such blatant beauty could ever be misconstrued as terrifying.

“Right,” Aziraphale suddenly blusters, “Well, that clearly _isn’t_ the extent of it. Back to work, Crawly.”

A ripple of surprise slithers across the wily serpent’s features, his lips coming together as his own brows draw into a slight frown, clearly disappointed at his transparency, before amusement is once more sparking into his gaze and his sharp wit is cleaving away at the distance Aziraphale is desperately putting between them.

“Oh, I do love it when you boss me around, angel,” Crawly drawls.

Aziraphale barely dignifies the comment with an answer, merely twisting his lips and pointedly staring at their latest door. Crawly eventually saunters away, the _snick_ of the lock similar to the boom of that first ever roll of thunder, Aziraphale standing alone upon the wall of Eden.

He has found, that they have fallen into a routine, a steadiness that particularly grounds Aziraphale from the maelstrom of emotion that twists beneath the surface of his corporation, tugs at the delicate strings of his heart as the children’s screams, ever constant, ring throughout the Halls of Heaven.

Once Crawly reaches his quota, wrings the terror from the unsuspecting children of earth, they retire to Aziraphale’s quarters. It is here that Crawly _insists_ that he fill in the required reports, the _paperwork_ , that their respective Head Offices expect at the end of each day on the Scare Floor. Essentially, it is _the_ _angel’s_ duty to fill in such formalities, as they tend to have neater handwriting and do not smear the forms with pus, tar, blood, or any other Hellish fluid, but Crawly is stubborn, particularly indignant when the angel questions his penmanship.

“Just shut up and give me the forms, Aziraphale,” he grumbles, palm turned towards the ceiling, his brow quirked, “I wouldn’t want to hurt your delicate _sensibilities_.”

Quickly, Aziraphale agrees with him, not entirely certain he would be able to stomach the details of what Crawly gets up to behind those closed doors. And so, it is there he finds himself watching as the demon scribes into their paperwork, iridescent tresses occasionally falling into the blaze of his eyes, causing his lashes to flutter, and a puff of annoyance to gust the hair away from his face.

It is the same each night, a quiet comfort descending upon them. The occasional murmured small talk, a heated debate, it sparks to life between them, angel and demon. Sitting across from each other, _hereditary enemies_ , they laugh, and tease, with Crawly’s eyes glinting in the gradual illumination of Heaven, and a wiggle of delight worming its way through Aziraphale, finding a home in the set of his shoulders as he bashfully glances away, after Crawly makes a particularly crude joke or comment. There is a simplicity to it, and Aziraphale soon finds himself looking forward to the times they can retreat from the Scare Floor, can find sanctuary in the four walls of his chambers.

Crawly has fallen into the habit of sleeping, curled upon the un-consecrated section of Aziraphale’s living quarters. The higher powers, Gabriel and the other Arch Angels, have allowed _particular_ human inventions to seep through into Heaven’s midst, including _beds_. And this is what Crawly clambers upon when the paperwork has been dutifully filled in, after the children of earth have been torn from their sleep to go about their day in a daze.

Aziraphale himself sits on a chair, four steady legs pressing into the smooth flooring of Heaven, not wanting for much else in his chambers. His own posture is _prim_ , hands folded neatly in his lap, back straight. Whereas, _Crawly_ positively _sprawls_ across the mixture of straw and hide, his hair resembling a sunset-sky as it fans behind him, tendrils of blood reaching out. It amuses Aziraphale, this uninhibited display of _sloth_ that Crawly so effortlessly displays, a lesson in temptation the demon is unaware he is even teaching.

This evening he turns to Aziraphale, a question dancing behind the fossil-resin of his gaze, tapping away at the back of his teeth, an eyebrow quirked, and a curiosity riddled smirk tugging at his lips. His head is lolled to one side, fingertips drumming away at the cut of his hip, the sheer _sharpness_ of him unable to be hidden, even by the pitch-coloured cloth draped around his corporation.

“Say, angel, what are all those rumours about?” Crawly ponders, “They say a human is building a big boat, filling it with a travelling zoo?”

There had been chatter throughout the Scare Floor, both angels and demons gossiping amongst themselves, a discordance of sound, several million ethereal and occult voices, almost enough to drown out the terrified wails of children.

The Almighty had reached out, had spoken directly with the Metatron and the Metatron _only_ , the Arch Angels’ had stridently reported, her _ire_ with the human race, with Cain’s descendants, causing much discussion amongst the ranks of Heaven, the hoards of Hell, in regards to their _punishment_.

“From what I hear, God’s a bit tetchy,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice low, noting the blank expression that has taken up residency across Crawly’s features, as if he is in no way _surprised_ , “Wiping out the human race. Big storm.”

But that, _that_ garners a reaction, a widening of the serpent’s eyes, a slight frown creasing his brow.

“All of them?” He asks, his tone incredulous.

“Just the locals,” Aziraphale responds, and he attempts to sound blasé, lace his tone with nonchalance, but he sounds too short of breath, guilt swelling within his lungs, a tide of remorse sweeping through the cells knitting his corporation together.

“And God’s not actually going to wipe out _all_ the locals,” he explains with a jerky nod as Crawly continues to stare, “I mean, Noah, his family, his sons, their wives, they’re all going to be _fine_.”

“But they’re _drowning_ everybody else?” And it is disconcerting that this demon, flung across a straw mattress in his own quarters, could look so positively _distressed_.

“Not the kids? You can’t _kill_ kids!” He continues, voice gravelly, his graceful fingertips fretfully tugging at a cardinal-red braid, his distress quickly turning, _morphing_ , into demonly disgust, incisors glinting in the low light of the chamber as he shakes his head.

“Mmhm,” is the only response Aziraphale is capable of giving, his knuckles twisting restlessly in his grip. If he were to speak, to yield to the words, the _opinions_ , that are laced across the flat of his tongue, settling in the grooves of his molars, it would be sheer _blasphemy_. 

“That’s more the kind of thing you’d expect my lot to do,” Crawly comments, sharp features shifting once more into a reluctant acceptance, a canine catching on his bottom lip as he flexes his crystal-cut jawline.

“Yes, but,” Aziraphale quickly enlightens, justifications tripping over his teeth, “When it’s done, the Almighty is going to put up a new thing called a _rain-bow_ , as a _promise_ not to drown everyone again.”

The confidence he attempted to distil into his tone, dredging up his unwavering _Faith_ , in the Almighty, in the Divine Plan, chokes out, withers and _dies_ in his throat as he is met with Crawly’s biting sarcasm, his clear _distaste_.

“How _kind_.”

“You _can’t_ _judge_ the _Almighty_ , Crawly!” He insists, the usual spiel slipping between his lips, a desperation interposed throughout, a stark reminder of disloyalty staring at him from across the room, “God’s plans are-”

“Are you going to say, ineffable?” Crawly interrupts, exasperation in his steady gaze, expectancy tucked into the bow of his lips, a crook at the corner of his mouth.

“Possibly,” Aziraphale concedes, his shoulder dipping forth in acknowledgement, eyes flickering away from the demon, exhaustion blanketing him as the adrenaline, the ever-present companion of anxiety, sidles from his bloodstream, evaporates into the stagnancy of Heaven. It leaves him feeling sluggish, a heavy _ache_ to his bones.

They lapse into silence, Aziraphale watching the occasional flex of Crawly’s jaw, the demon’s lips parting as if about to speak, before scrubbing a hand over his face. Agitation has run wrought over the razor length of him, can be found in the hand that runs through his hair, in the vein pulsing beneath the ink of his tattoo. There is tension slung along the curve of his shoulders, resting in the set of his brow. 

Where Aziraphale can sit in the quiet of Heaven for decades, _centuries_ , ever the disciplined _solider_ , Crawly is _restless_. He is _motion_ , a drumming fingertip or a bouncing leg, a shift of his hips or a stretch of his neck. His tongue runs across the bow of his lips, his eyelashes flutter against the clifftop of his cheeks. Crawly seems as if he is _hurtling_ out of orbit, a wicked and wild thing that knows nothing of _stillness_ , nothing of _rest_. Aziraphale is forever of the sense that Crawly is _running_.

And it is at that moment that the demon in question all but launches himself from the straw bedding, leading hips first as he prowls towards the door, barely turning his head to throw over his shoulder,

“’m going out for a walk, angel.”

For a moment, Aziraphale remains sitting, watching as the door to his quarters clicks closed, the dimness once more clinging to the fabric of his robes, as if the glow of Crawly’s eyes, the _burn_ of his hair, illuminated Aziraphale’s chambers just that little bit more, produced a light that had not be sourced from terror, from _fear_.

Quiet has fallen, the demon’s footfalls fading as he stalks down the corridor, and with it, with this creeping silence and _absence_ , Aziraphale feels _unsettled_ , a whisper of warning walking its way down his spine. It sings beneath the flesh of him, a gentle thrum that seemingly grows as Crawly moves further into the depths of Heaven.

There are justifications, of course, as to why Aziraphale finds himself crossing the room and stepping through the threshold of his chambers into the empty halls of Heaven. He is, first and foremost, a guardian, a _principality_ , and Crawly had been left under his careful vigil, direct orders from Gabriel to _manage_ the Serpent of Eden. His duty is what drives him from his chambers, sends him after Crawly, determination snaking into his shoulders, sneaking down each and every vertebrae, and settling in his lower back. But there is also a prickle of _caution_ tickling along the nape of his neck, rippling along the hair of his forearms. He feels no _malice_ , nothing dark or _demonic_ emanating from the occult being he follows, and Aziraphale is all too aware that this _wariness_ is something different, something unknown.

Crawly has all but disappeared, melded into the gloom of Heaven, Aziraphale having not glanced a flash of fire, nor heard his footsteps, for quite some time. Something _burns_ within the angel, however, an ability to _sense_ his demon counterpart as if a gleaming bright beacon of hell-flame and luminous amber was lodged in his chest cavity, thrumming as he draws ever closer.

A moment of hesitation causes Aziraphale’s footsteps to falter as he approaches the Scare Floor, an eerie silence draped over the abandoned space, all doors having dissolved away, melded back into the ether for the time being. All other teams had retreated from the workspace, the demons having been put on break, as the Conversion Department, currently inundated with power, tirelessly converted terror to energy, the dimness of Heaven growing lighter with each week. It was expected that the demons of Hell, including Crawly, would be returning down Below for extended leave whilst the Conversion Department focussed on the backlog of energy.

It is there, in the middle of the Scare Floor, that Aziraphale draws to a stop, his hand momentarily fluttering to his chest, lips parting, because, as if all at once, he is _unable_ to feel Crawly.

Panic begins to work its way, painstakingly, up his throat, sinks and _tightens_ into the flesh of his trachea. Aziraphale, suddenly _bereft_ , moves further into the room, squinting into the dim, searching for a flash of red, a glimmer of gold, his worry soon swept away by _realisation_.

Awareness seeps into the angel, a recognition that he is tracking the _Serpent of Eden_ , that once more he may have failed, may have been _fooled_ , that Crawly could have slipped through the cracks, could once more be finding a forbidden fruit in the depths of Heaven, a dastardly demon roaming free.

It is as if Aziraphale is once more back on the Eastern Wall of Eden, the warm stone turning cool beneath his bare feet, Adam and Eve wandering into the unknown, a glimmer of flame lighting their way, and anxiety thrumming its poison through Aziraphale’s bloodstream.

At first, he believes it to be his imagination, the crack of thunder that ricochets within the empty room, a stark memory of that first storm, the teeming rain soon falling in a steady rumble. But soon enough, the commotion has Aziraphale peering further into the vastness of the hall, a frown creasing his brow as he takes in the shadow, looming up out of the darkness.

It’s a door.

Splintery and flimsy, it stands alone in the middle of the room, a sentinel in the dim, standing vigil. Aziraphale approaches cautiously, his steps steady and sure, the sounds of a storm reverberating around him and from _within_ that portal to earth.

And suddenly, it is quite clear as to why Aziraphale is unable to sense Crawly’s presence. An oversight during his haze of panic. The emptiness, the _absence_ , that had worked its way through Aziraphale, that had been _out of place_ , was something so normal during working hours, and it had taken him completely by surprise, utterly _unexpectant_.

Foolishly, Crawly sneaking through a door outside of business periods had never crossed his mind.

_Have you ever been back, since Eden?_

Rules had been laid out by the Arch Angels, Gabriel had towered amongst the masses, Michael’s stern expression by his side, as he _explicitly_ stated that no angels were to descend to earth, to slip from Heaven’s gloom into the embrace of Her Creation, through any of the doors available to them. But the sound of a storm rages on around Aziraphale, a disharmony of thunder and torrential torrents of rain, drowning his inhibitions as he reaches out and pushes on that flimsy door, feels the rough timber give beneath his fingertips and swing inwards.

Swallowing his hesitation, feeling it tremor through the sharp billow of his lungs, he steps from the calm, clinical chill of Heaven and into _mayhem_.

Water laps at his calves, licks up the hem of his robes and crawls _higher_ , as if seeking escape from the treacherous depths that continue to rise. Children’s toys float past him, wooden carvings clearly well loved, bump into his legs before bobbing beneath the deluge, swelling and splintering. Thunder rumbles above, streaks of lightning piercing through the darkness as Aziraphale wades his way further into the room, the flash of brilliance illuminating the mudbricks that are slowing eroding, wearing _away_ , a dirty river rippling in their wake.

He stumbles his way outside, directly into the storm, the ceiling creaking ominously above him before succumbing to the weight of the water, caving inwards and flattening the few material possessions within, the debris soon being swept away. The fractured timber slices at the exposed flesh of his legs, tears at his robes, tugging at the material with the swell of the surge before being dragged into the undercurrents, a swirling mass of wreckage.

And there are dead things too, dead _humans_ , their fingertips grazing across his flesh, their deadened eyes and bloated bodies sweeping past.

Brushing away the pearls of rain that tumble from his grey myrtle-hair to the gold of his eyelashes, the roar of thunder thrums along the skyline so deep he can feel it rattling within his ribcage, a crack of lightning so brilliant it shocks all surroundings, for one moment, into blissful white. It is then that he sees the boat, the _ark_ , a towering beast of a thing, the stench of it carrying across the downpour, the reek of animals and fear all but drowning out the petrichor. Water laps at the hull, gently coaxing the carrier into its turbulent cradle, a simple delicacy it looks like, the sheer magnitude of the ark making it seem as if the floods were not capable of the destruction they were producing.

The wind is _howling_ along the horizon, skimming over the crest of waves, as the water reaches waist height, Aziraphale’s fingertips skating over the surface. He glances to the ark, squinting through the teeming rain, a flash of ink catching his attention, a sparkling onyx, so rich in its absence of colour that it is stark against the tumultuous sky. It only takes the faintest flicker of red, a kiss of sunset-flame amongst the obsidian, to stir Aziraphale into motion, for him to spread his wings, an ivory so vivid it is as if once more lightning sparks across the sky, and soar into the storm.

There is a moment where he is buffeted, wings caught and swept away in the unrelenting barrage of the Almighty’s _fury_ , pinions buckling beneath the onslaught, before he course-corrects, battles against the surges of the tempest until he is landing on unsteady feet, the timber beneath him _slick_. Below, the floodwaters continue to rise, the ark beginning to _heave_ amongst the swell, with no sign that the storm would soon ease, no sign that God’s wrath had subsided.

Crawly is yet to notice him, shielded as he is by the raven of his wings, ringlets of blood-red a crown amongst the glossy ebony. Aziraphale can hear his murmurs though, the deep croon of his voice, soothing and soft enough to cause the angel’s brows to crease in confusion.

“Crawly?” He murmurs, keeps his voice low enough to not startle the huddled demon, but ensures that it catches on the wind, flows over the seething sea rocking to life beneath them, to reach him.

It is instantaneous, his reaction, his head snapping up, golden gaze widening, _burning_ , as he stares at Aziraphale. Guilt seems to flutter across his expression, as if he has been _exposed_ , a grimace contorting the thin line of his lips. His hair is sodden, hanging in a heavy tangle, the rain staining the rouge of it almost _black_ , the braids unravelling from their confines.

“What are you doing here, Crawly?” Aziraphale asks, approaching carefully, hand reaching out. Crawly stares at the proffered limb, a wariness the angel had watched dissipate over the previous months returning in the demon’s gilded gaze, leaving him hanging.

Defeat bleeding into Crawly’s expression, he glances away, the coal of his feathers shifting, slowly, gingerly, stretching towards the monsoon that rails around them, the demon gazing out over the rising flood, refusing to meet Aziraphale’s stare. Crawly clears his throat, a guttural sound marked with grief, discomfort written through the very _core_ of him, tapping its way up his serpentine spine.

And then, abruptly, staring back at the angel, shifting beneath the cover of Crawly’s wings, are _children_. Their grubby faces smeared with tears; they tremble within the demon’s embrace, a particularly tiny toddler burrowing his features into the crook of Crawly’s collarbone, pudgy fingers grabbing at the char of his robes. 

“Couldn’t get them all out,” the demon grunts, his voice choked, extracting himself from the children’s grips, straightening as a resounding boom of thunder _cracks_ around them.

Yet to make eye-contact with the angel, his eyes skitter around their increasingly grim surroundings, the ark well and truly floating above a _graveyard_. The children whimper as they too, look out across their land, their _home_.

In total, there are six, the youngest is the toddler Crawly had cradled against his chest, the eldest a lanky teen whose soaking bangs hang before his red-rimmed eyes. They stare at Aziraphale, wary within the angel’s presence, immediately gravitating towards the occult being that looms behind them, the darkest and most demonic of guardians.

_Have you ever been back, since Eden?_

As another bolt of lightning streaks through the ever darkening sky, the sun all but swallowed by the ensuing misery, Aziraphale realises that _this_ is why Crawly has been disappearing for so many hours during their time on the Scare Floor, _this_ is why Crawly has braids placed tenderly throughout his mane of crimson. _These_ innocent and so very young children, the very beings Crawly’s has been sent to _terrify_ , he has grown _attached_ to, even now shielding them from the rage of the Almighty.

“Laughter, it’s stronger than fear,” Crawly coughs, ploughing a trembling hand into his hair, fingers snarling in the tangles.

Dragging his eyes away from the quivering children, their forms almost skeletal, clothes clinging to their tiny frames, Aziraphale stares at the demon, perplexed.

“Sorry?”

A snarl creeps over Crawly’s features, flecked with frustration, it draws his brows together, curls his upper lip, displays the sharp jut of an incisor. He shifts restlessly, shoulders slinging in their sockets, even as the children grasp onto his dripping robes. There is something wild nestled within that chest of his, Aziraphale notices, something writhing and savage, a pain that even after eons has not ceased to pass.

“Their laughter,” he growls, motioning an irritated gesture towards the toddler currently wrapped around his calf, “It’s stronger than their fear. It’s why I reach my targets so easily, angel. It’s why you never hear _my_ door _screaming_.”

Aziraphale is aware that he is staring, shock working its tedious way through his system, sinking into the muscles of his shoulders, and tingling in the tips of his fingers. Swallowing past the lump of emotion traitorously lodged in his throat, he shakes himself, swipes at the water carving rivulets into the softness of his cheeks, spine straightening.

“Come, let us get them somewhere dry,” he suggests, motioning for Crawly to lead the way further into the ark, the disharmony of all Her creations beckoning them into a menagerie of sound and _stench_. Fear permeates around the timber of the ark, ripples from the beasts it cradles above the flood.

But it is dry, the children quickly finding a bed of straw unoccupied and nestling themselves within it, speaking rapidly in hushed tones, the teenager cooing to the toddler, swiping trembling fingers through the babe’s downy locks. Aziraphale approaches them, feeling a soft gentle smile tug over his features, an angelic fondness bleeding into his gaze.

The blessings only take a moment, the miracles that result in dry clothing even less.

Crawly hisses between his teeth, propped up against the shuddering timber of the hull, the animals closest to him reacting as they would if they were to stumble across a snake, nostrils flaring, the whites of their eyes flashing in both defence and distress. The Serpent of Eden does nothing to assuage their fears, ignores the raucous creatures in favour of finally, _finally_ , returning Aziraphale’s gaze.

“There won’t be any getting out of here for a long while, angel,” he states, spreading his hands wide, “No doors anymore.”

Aziraphale had had the same thought, the realisation striking him as he had soared towards the ark, that until the floods had settled, the water had soaked into the soil, there would be no way of reaching Heaven using regular channels without alerting the Arch Angels to his discrepancy, exposing that he and his demon counterpart had snuck through a door, stepped foot onto earth without their permission. Crawly and Aziraphale’s only chance of going undiscovered was to wait until there was a suitable door for them to use, to go undetected.

He releases a shuddering breath, tugs at the collar of his, still saturated, robes, until Crawly is clicking his fingers with a brash movement, head tilted to the side and a look of exasperation plastered over his features, Aziraphale’s robes suddenly dry.

“Oh,” the angel remarks, fingertips ghosting along the pristine white, “Oh, _thank_ you.”

He receives a grunt in response, watches as Crawly dries his own robes with a miracle, a careless wave of his hand, resulting in the wringing wet ringlets of his hair to bounce into their usual curls. A shrug swings along his shoulders, draws up from the sling of his hips to nestle into the taut muscle stretching along his collarbone. The movement is nonchalant, offhand, as if Crawly’s _gentleness_ is to be _expected_.

“No, really,” Aziraphale continues, voice laced with sincerity, taking a step towards the demon, “This is all very good of you, very _kind_.”

And abruptly the casual lean Crawly had adopted along the side of the ark is twisting into demonic fury, metaphorical hackles raising as he stalks towards Aziraphale, teeth drawn into a snarl, eyes flashing with warning, skeletal finger pointing at the angel in emphasis.

“ _Don’t_ say that,” he growls, “ _This_ is going against _Her_ plan, against everything _She_ _wants_.”

Aziraphale see’s Crawly’s volatile reaction for what it is; the scowl creasing the corner of his lips, the whites of his eyes bleeding away to yellow, the menace laced through the gravel of his tone. Aziraphale looks at the seething demon before him and sees sheer demonic _bravado_.

One would think, after being cast from the Halls of Heaven, after being seared and _boiled_ by sweltering sulphur, and then sucked down into the very bowels of Hell, a demon would have had all machismo burnt away. A creature that had suffered the worst torment imaginable and crawled from that pit of despair a twisted and tortured thing, preferring to stick to the cover of shadows, a cowed and sneaky cretin.

Aziraphale is quickly realising that Crawly is the exception to every rule.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale concedes, tilting his head to the side as he offers Crawly a tentative smile, “Even so.”

It seems to placate the demon for now, the fury dissolving around them as quickly as it had come, his features settling once more into a playful smirk. Surprisingly, the grin that is spreading over the sharp cut of Crawly’s jaw, the _playfulness_ resting in the amber of his eyes, is more unnerving to Aziraphale than the demon’s ire.

Crawly is to be feared when he is feeling particularly _cunning_.

“They have their _agreement_ , angel, with whatever stunt they’re pulling up there in working alongside Hell, terrifying children when they really don’t _need_ to,” Crawly propositions, his tone light and suggestive, “How about you and I have an _arrangement?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a Quercus Virginiana (Souther Live Oak), also known as the Angel Tree in South Carolina, so obviously I had to tuck it somewhere into this chapter.
> 
> Any and all feed back is deeply appreciated, so please drop me a line below.


	4. bound up tight like lips around a whimper.

_"And night birds digging until dawn,_

  
_Freedom hangs like heaven over everyone,_

  
_Ain't nobody knows what the newborn holds,_

  
_But his mama says he'll walk on water_

  
_And wander back home."_

_\- freedom hangs like heaven, iron & wine._

The rains had been _relentless_ , a steady downpour battering at the timber lashed atop the ark, for forty days and forty nights. Thunderclouds, dark and looming beasts cracked open, released great and _terrible_ rumbles of warning, marked with a flash of lightning, the white fire reflecting off the murky and seething seas below.

In the _beginning_ , in those first few days of the storm when the straw was still fresh, the stench of the animals had been tolerable, the creatures eventually settling into their new normalcy, the fear dissipating. The stink of sweat and other bodily fluids seeming to be swept away by the rancorous winds, a _mercy_ for the survivors. 

But the water, the liquefied blanket now draped over the undulated crust of earth, clinging to the curves of mountains, it _rots_. It leeches into the vulnerable and decays the cells stitching lifeforms together, seeps in and _takes_.

Crawly has it etched into his memory, can still feel the despair that carved itself into his stomach, latched on and sank heavy, like _lead_ , as he had stared out across that vast ocean of torment. Aziraphale had made a noise, something _wounded_ , by his side, a sound that had Crawly’s knuckles turning white as they grasped onto the railing, watching as the angel’s gaze leaked with grief, the multitudes of an ocean contained with them.

The dead floated by, their rotting corpses a _feast_ , the birds roosting within the ark soaring to and fro, balancing on and tearing at the putrefying flesh, showing no discrimination as they fed on man, woman, child and beast.

Within days, the stench had quickly become close to unbearable, cloying and _sickly_ , and were it not for some hastily made miracles, Crawly would have found himself retching into the abyss that swirled below, the serpent within him able to taste the decay that hung thick and heavy in the air, leeched into the rain as it continued to tumble from the heavens.

Aziraphale had been quiet ever since, a blankness resting over his usually expressive features, discomfort laced through the very _existence_ of him. Fretfully, his hands would tug at his robes, a rabid anxiety in the way his fingers would twist the ring that adorned them, in the way he’d flex his neck. Occasionally, he would approach the children, would speak gently with them, a spark glistening in the bluebell of his eyes, and it would ease the tension that had wound tight into Crawly’s lungs, canvased the cage of his ribs.

And then Aziraphale would catch the demon watching, would notice the bile of his gaze, and his expression would morph into exhaustion. It was a tiredness that, when he looked at Crawly, it was as if he hoped the demon could _take it away_.

It aches, coils within his insides, this _pain_ , at seeing Aziraphale despondent, a protectiveness lacing through the very _damned_ core of him. His throat tightens if he catches the angel in the dying light of the day, (It catches in the brightening of dawn.), it tightens when the blue of that murderous sea, those dank flood waters, illuminate the storm grey of his irises. It tightened when they were back in Aziraphale’s quarters and that angel, that _principality_ ¸ had looked at Crawly and _smiled_ , a bright and giddy thing, leaving the demon all but helpless before him.

It tightened even as the angel scolded him, that first day of the flood, a sheet of rain his backlight, beads of water clinging to the dandelion of his hair, refusing Crawly’s proposal, refusing the _arrangement_. He has not yet broached the subject again.

There is a creeping awareness to it, to this _feeling_ , something a little bit like dread sleuthing up his serpentine spine to nestle at the base of his skull, a realisation riddled through the very core of the demon, that he is absolutely, irrefutably, _fucked_.

His reactions to Aziraphale’s emotional state so visceral, so _primitive_ , causing such concern in both that Aziraphale is a _principality_ , his _handler_ and supposedly a hereditary enemy, but also because this anguish that the angel feels so deeply, this sorrow that has found a home for itself in the very pit of him, bleeding into his gaze, into the tremble of his fingers, it is likely to be _reoccurring_.

Crawly is very _conscious_ , after having spent the pass millennium sneaking from Hell to earth, of the atrocities committed by humans to _other_ humans, has witnessed countless acts of violence, and sheer bloodlust from men and women, the fury that _drives_ them, burns deep and heady in the very core of their aging bodies. Crawly, has seen death in many of its forms; murders and illness, the slow and steady creep of _time_. And though this tragedy, this swell of misery and destruction, had been written within the Halls of Heaven, had supposedly been a consequence of the Almighty’s bidding, Crawly is unsurprised, _detached_.

It is of no wonder that God would, on the occasion, turn upon Her creations. The humans were capable of free will, courtesy of Crawly himself, but they were not the first to _have it_. They were, after all, cultivated in Her image, forged from her very _being_. The fury, that _anger_ , that can taint the souls of humans, drives them to the very depths of Hell for the carnage they create, it _burns_ within her too.

Crawly is all but proof of that.

Aziraphale had _watched_ the rebellion, had _fought_ in it. He had witnessed Lucifer and the rest tumble from Her Grace, watched as they were stripped of her Divine _love_ , the gold of them seared and sluiced away with sheer velocity. Surely, he had heard the screams, the _pleading_. On occasion, Crawly would glimpse it within the angel, tucked away behind that soft countenance of his, the grim expression of a _warrior_ , battle hardened. He would see it in those moments when he stared at Crawly for just that bit _too_ long, as if he were back thousands of millennia ago, as if he were _remembering_.

But _Aziraphale_ had never _fallen_ , had not experienced the cool and collected calm of Her voice as she tipped you over that precipice, into that _God-awful_ gaping maw of despair.

Crawly _had_.

He’d stared into Her serene gaze, felt the ash of Her Faith lace his tongue, _choked_ on his curiosity, and slipped from Her Grace, a proverbial cliff giving way beneath him steadily and surely. Unlike Lucifer, Crawly’s Fall had not been all at once, no, it had been gradual, a _saunter_ of deterioration, and it seemingly caused more agony, this dissent into madness, because She had done _nothing_ to save him.

This flood of Heaven’s devising, it truly was of no surprise to the demon, disturbing without a doubt, but the violence of it, the unforgiving nature of it, Crawly is _intimately_ acquainted with.

Watching Aziraphale come to terms with it, however, to observe his internal struggle, the justifications and reasonings dancing over the depths of his maelstrom eyes, fear and confusion combining to birth a heady mixture of anxiety and unease, it is enough for Crawly to click his jaw shut, to swallow back the opinions that threaten to knock through his incisors. He sits and he watches Aziraphale, and desperately hopes he does not have to see him disappear, that this Principality does not succumb to the stony and clinical temperament of Heaven to survive.

Uncomfortably, a certain level of _guilt_ to it, Crawly is finding that he is quite fond of this angel, (an all-consuming _fondness_ that makes his chest both feel as if it were withering and _coming to life_ ), with his prissy remarks and fussy hands, his snowflake-hair and sea-storm eyes. The demon looks at Aziraphale and can’t help believe that earth would _suit_ the angel, that he would grow to like it here, amongst the humans, once the flood waters had receded, once the ever resilient little creatures rebuild and _thrive_.

And as expected, they soon do. The waters waste away, the sun beckoning the depths into the sky, the soil embracing the lakes that do not ascend to form cloud, the earth soon drying and _life_ returning to its surface. Noah and his family disembark, as do the rescued children, exposed only days into the flood and taken in by the wives, _cared for_ , courtesy of Aziraphale’s gentle persuasion. The families begin to rebuild within the saturated wasteland, form bricks from the residual mud, thrash timber together from the trees that had not yet burst back to life, did not have green budding along their spindly frames.

Soon enough, to Aziraphale’s clear relief, there is a door for the angel and demon to sneak through, to ascend back to the Heavens, their superiors none the wiser. Crawly has fresh braids laced through his curls, is struggling to shake away the image of Aziraphale unabashedly staring at him as the children’s nimble fingers weaved throughout his tresses.

Stepping through the portal, it becomes apparent that the Scare Floor has not yet returned to action. The hordes of Hell having succumbed to the depths, their workstation deathly silent as they tread through the empty space, the door leading back to Noah dissolving away, as they step out into the halls. Heaven itself is significantly brighter, _glowing_ almost as it once had, and Crawly watches Aziraphale glance around their surroundings, expression grim, the delight of Heaven and _Hell’s_ success wilting within the sea-wash of his irises, remembering that the terror they reap, is not _necessary_ , not at all.

Crawly says nothing, continues to stalk forwards, shoulders hunched against the remorse he can feel leaking from the ethereal being beside him. And when they eventually reach Aziraphale’s quarters, said angel beckoning for Crawly to precede him into the room, it feels _odd_ , knowing that he must leave the angel here, that he must sink back Below, until he is once more summoned by the Arch Angels; terror needing to be reaped, power to be forged from madness.

As the Heaven’s had opened, as that great swaying beast of an ark had rocked beneath them, Crawly had not been without Aziraphale, not for a single _moment_. There had been an awareness of his presence at all times, _relentless_ in its ferocity. He had felt it lodged within his chest cavity, felt it tapping at his ribcage whenever he heard the soft exhalation of Aziraphale’s breathy laugh, felt it seep into the swell of his lungs and _constrict_ , as the angel would ramble, _prattle_ , away, hands in constant motion, fluttering as if mimicking the hiccupping _thrum_ of Crawly’s own heartbeat.

“I think we may have gotten away with it, dear boy,” Aziraphale comments, as he bustles into the bare chambers, his wooden chair and Crawly’s mattress having remained untouched, no sign that the Arch Angels, nor the Dukes, had come searching for them.

Crawly chooses not to comment, gives a sharp jerk of his head, tongue ghosting along the sliver of his canines, fingers momentarily grasping at the pitch of his robes, before releasing and flexing into fists. There is _nothing_ for the angel here, in this bare and blank space, nothing but a chair and a bed he does not use. And though at least the angel _has_ quarters, an area to escape, unlike Crawly in Hell, it makes the demon _ache_ , that for an indeterminate amount of time, Aziraphale will be here _alone_ in this sterile place.

“Crawly, are you quite alright?” Aziraphale questions, drawing to a stop, brows drawing together as his gaze flickers over the demon.

“Ah, yeah, angel,” Crawly stutters, fingers drifting to touch at the braids laced throughout his hair, “Just might need to get on my way, don’t want you to get caught out with me if Gabriel decides to drop by.”

Crawly glances away, does not notice the disappointment that flutters across Aziraphale’s features, does not see it in the way his hands quickly brush at his robes, before his expression shutters, and he is nodding his head in agreement.

“Yes, of course,” the angel comments, moving back towards the door they had just come from, sweeping an arm out into the empty hallway as Crawly brushes past, “I suppose I’ll be seeing you eventually.”

The demon turns, looks back at Aziraphale, and then past him, to that lonely chair and empty mattress, feels something tug at the strings of him, nestling into his very core and _resting_ there, a deep yearning to give Aziraphale something _more_.

“See you, angel,” he replies, turning and striding down that long corridor, refusing to look back but severely conscious, _aware_ , that the _snick,_ signalling Aziraphale’s door having closed, was yet to come.

.

.

At first, Aziraphale is hesitant to accept, (damn _adamant_ in his refusal), his eyes shockingly blue as he stares at Crawly, the papyrus scroll cradled in his hands as if it may explode, as if it were moments away from bursting into flames (oh, how correct he was). The dandelion-curls of his hair wobble as if being caressed by a soft breeze, an image caused by the way he is vehemently shaking his head.

“I can’t accept this, Crawly,” he exclaims, quickly contradicting himself when a spark of Hellfire tingles from Crawly’s fingertips, a nonchalant shrug sweeping over the demon’s form, a smirk playing across his features, as Aziraphale gathers the scroll close to his chest, spins away from the demon in defence.

“Give it here then, angel,” Crawly drawls, hand extended out to the angel, Aziraphale looking at him in sheer horror, flame flickering between them, “No point keeping it, I don’t read.”

“You can’t _burn_ it, Crawly!” is Aziraphale’s shrill response, ever the _protector_ , his retreat taking him onto consecrated grounds, the scroll to _safety_. Crawly thinks that if that glare had been aimed at him in Eden, if Aziraphale had been where he was _supposed to be_ , and not munching on whatever fruit he had discovered in that hour, the demon would have been smited on the spot. Now, however, the piercing glower, the frothing sea-wash eyes, swells amusement throughout Crawly’s corporation, a gleeful delight breathing deep and heady in his very lungs.

“Then keep it,” Crawly murmurs, all too aware that he is coming across far too _endearing_ , knows that there is a softness bleeding into his gaze impossible for the angel to miss.

From that moment it grows easier, to gift this angel, a complete and utter _bibliophile_ , with all manners of scrolls and literature, whatever Crawly can get his hands on when he returns to earth, filtering through anything legible he can find in the designated child’s house, sauntering out onto the street, visiting markets. And though chaos (or low-level irritation) breathes in his wake; couples walking too slow, great pyramids of fruit suddenly tumbling to bruise on the hot sandy street, performers dragging unwilling participants into their dismal shows, Crawly always finds _something_ to return with, for Aziraphale.

There is a desk (not easily concealed during his return), solid and similar to the chair already taking up residency in the angel’s chambers. And then atop that desk is a clay vase, and then, after a relatively _easy_ day on the Scare Floor, (easy for Crawly, positively _trying_ for Aziraphale), a bunch of flowers are nestled into that vase, a flash of colour in the chamber.

Aziraphale would brighten each time he noticed something different within his quarters, dimples kissing at the corners of his mouth, eyes glistening, _sparkling_ , with mirth as his fingers would trace over the object of the moment, would pointedly _not_ look at Crawly, much to the demon’s relief, uncertain if he would be capable of masking the utter joy he feels at Aziraphale’s clear delight, helpless at the way he bites his lip, watching a flush crawl up the angel’s neck, blush meeting downy snow. 

Watching the way Aziraphale peruses the literature Crawly brings to him, the way he delicately handles the papyrus, carefully tucks the pieces in secure places, beneath his mattress, in a chest Crawly had recently procured, once finished with them, it brings the demon _peace_ , solidifies the belief that Aziraphale belongs on earth, surrounded by scrolls and parchment, the smell of it musty in the air.

Aziraphale begins to stir, has just cleared his throat, looks up from his chair, a scroll rolled out on the desk before him, the meadow-flecked blue of his eyes slightly hazy after so many hours of reading. There is a soft smile etched across the delicate pink of his lips.

Crawly has been staring for a while now, a messy tumble of jittering muscles, even spread as he is across his mattress. He should be focussed on their reports, he knows, but he finds that his fingers drum along the meat of his thigh instead of scrawling away at the parchment in front of him, finds that they occasionally drift up his abdomen to lightly stroke at the delicate flesh of his throat, the stain-yellow of his gaze trained on the principality before him. The principality who has not moved in _hours_ , shoulders set and posture perfect, a little crease in between his brow, concertation seeming to _radiate_ from him.

The principality who is now _smiling_ at him and making _small talk_ , as they do every evening. A simplicity that uncurls a _warmth_ in the demon that has _nothing_ to do with the Hellfire that courses through his very being.

“Have you heard about the child?” He asks, turning bodily to face the demon, hands folded in his lap.

“Hard not to,” Crawly responds, waving a hand vaguely towards the ceiling, “It’s the only thing you White Wings are blathering on about.”

The _child_ , the Son of _God_. A messiah, _the_ _messiah_ , to the people, to the humans, now gurgling and writhing, a _baby_ amongst them. Swaddled in destiny and linen, cradled to his surrogate mother’s breast, (Poor Mary, still dreaming of the piercing violet eyes of Gabriel), he contains a blessing within him that only the angels of Heaven can understand.

“Well, it is _rather_ exciting, Crawly,” Aziraphale babbles, and Crawly can see it, even if the angel would furtively deny it, that the arrival of Christ, whatever this child achieves once he has grown, will spark a literary _legacy_ , and the angel is acutely aware of it.

He gives a shrug in response, brushes his hands down the front of his robes, waits for the angel to continue, in no doubt that he _will_ , a gleam there in the depths of that endless blue.

“Presumably, your side won’t have much to do with him,” Aziraphale comments, conversationally, a wiggle passing through his torso, head ever so slightly tilted to the side, gold lashes fluttering across the apple of his cheeks, “He’ll be safe, protected by Heaven and the Almighty.”

Crawly briefly considers Lucifer, once an angel that had stood steadfastly beside God, a loyal advisor and _loved_ by Her. He thinks of his Fallen brethren, of the hapless and wretched angels that had tumbled into Her ill-grace, once Her children and now _Hell-things_. He thinks of _himself_ , of the utter betrayal he had felt at Her unforgiving nature, his dastardly decent into dishonour, an accident, ill-advised and entirely irredeemable.

He thinks back, all those years ago to Mesopotamia, to the _flood_ , to those humans bloated and floating on the surface of Heaven’s ire, bobbing as fodder for the crows and the ravens.

Pondering this child, this Son of _God_ , Crawly’s canines dipping into the soft flesh of his lips, close to drawing blood, he looks back at the angel and slowly shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t be so sure, angel.”

Aziraphale looks back at him, a crease kissing his brow, the denial and declination to understand the graveness of Crawly’s tone, sits there in the down turn of his lips, in the shuttering of his gaze, the wiggle of his shoulders setting into a stony countenance, spine rigid.

.

.

Heat, it beats down upon him. The sun’s rays utterly unforgiving, the skin peeling from his weathered body, the scraps of linen and cotton clinging to his malnourished frame, long ago soiled with sweat and dirt. Red, the sand of the desert, clings to the withering muscles of his calves, it’s sprinkled through the tangle of his hair, the scruff of his beard. A dry tongue swipes uselessly across chapped lips, the only moisture that of the beads of blood, blooming at the surface, cracked fissures of flesh. Pants are pulled from his weakening lungs, each draw of breath tugging that bronze flesh over the razor edge of his ribs, the flesh seemingly as fragile as parchment.

And still, he staggers on.

In the night, he trembles, huddles around the pitiful campfire, the frost creeping over the cacti surrounding him, creeping into his very _core_ , the cold of it more stifling than the heat of day. The robes he wears offer no shelter, it is just he and the stars above him, body pressed to the sand that rapidly loses its heat, the Heavens gazing down at him, a fragile human, seemingly days from death.

Crawly watches him always, stays with him, _always_. He strides through the dunes, stalks this figure by day and stalks this figure by night, offers him food, offers him water, feels the frustration bubbling and boiling in the very blood of him, at every refusal, at the shake of that weary head.

“Don’t be a bloody _martyr_ ,” he snaps, an edge to his anger, something a little like fear, as his assignment stumbles, catches his descent on the scorching sand, hands cracked and dry.

The Son of God stares back at him, a shadow of a smile pulling at his weather-worn features, his battered body trembling with amusement, a huff of laughter.

Crawly practically snarls in disgust, gives a sharp shake of his head, before reaching down and snagging his fingers around Jesus’ bicep, feels the soft give of weakening muscles, as he hauls the man to his wobbly feet, pointedly ignoring the soft gaze the messiah aims his way, the fondness that sits there.

The Serpent of Eden has watched the Son of God for the past thirty days, and the past thirty nights. He has studied him in the flicker of firelight, in the breaking of dawn, and the coming of dusk. Crawly has watched him near _constantly_ , and has noticed that, no matter the malnourishment, or the heat or the _thirst_ , the sharpness of his gaze, the perceptiveness that laces the hazel irises of the man before him, it never dims, and it never falters.

They sit before another fire, this night, the flames flickering in the chilled evening wind, the heat being dispelled positively pitiful. Jesus is crowded around the embers, squatting, hands hovering over the weak warmth, painted in the lowlight, shadows dancing over the edge of his features, skeletal, emaciated, even with the tangle of facial hair.

Physically, he grows weaker with each day, his body succumbing to the hunger, to the elements, and Crawly wonders why these things, Heaven’s orders, and Hell’s, must always be in the forties, why this man must resist temptation for the same amount of time that Noah had embarked upon the Ark, (the same amount of time Crawly had spent staring at the angel next to him, day after day, the rain occasionally dampening the fluffy dandelion of his hair, the sun occasionally sparkling off the ocean of his eyes.)

His mentality is strong, though, _resolute_. Crawly had expected it, in that first week, that this temptation would be for naught, that Hell’s plan would ultimately fail. This figure, this man fairly _radiant_ with the Almighty’s blessing, would fail to succumb to the promises of _the evil one_.

And the tempting of one, minus of course _Eve_ , isn’t exactly Crawly’s _style_. It holds no interest for him, no particular _challenge_ , no _reward_. Crawly foments dissent and _discord_ , large scaled, reaps anarchy through the lives of many, a chain reaction of chaos, bleeding infernal frustrations. Following the Son of God throughout the desert, tempting him with _stones_ to _bread,_ and the _pinnacle_ of the _temple_ , it was all rather dull, unimaginative, a list to be ticked off and sent back to Head Office, his infernal sigil etched into the yellow parchment, confirming an utterly unattainable soul.

“Were you chosen specifically for this temptation?”

The suddenness of the question startles him for a moment, gaze settling on the man crumpled before the fire, Jesus having been growing quieter with each day, the rasp of his throat, the lack of water, causing him pain. He is staring back at Crawly, expression serene, even as the temperature continues to drop lower and lower, the stars a far off warmth that the demon can still imagine in the flex of his fingertips, a different warmth to Hellfire, a warmth of _home_.

For a moment he stares at the fire, at times forgetting how _perceptive_ this man could truly be, how throughout their journey, he would turn and _gaze_ at Crawly, would stare through him, a look all too familiar to the Almighty, as cutting and shudder inducing.

“Yes,” he eventually responds, breaking eye contact, running a single digit through the soft sand between his feet, attempts to shoulder the weight of the regard that is resting upon him.

“Why?” A singular question, a singular word, and it feels as if Crawly has been flayed alive, feels as if this man, this _messiah_ , has crawled beneath the very skin of him, is unthreading his very being, inch by inch.

He thinks of Eve, the sharpening of her gaze as her teeth had sunk into the flesh of that apple, at the juice dribbling down the soft swell of her chin, _knowledge_ latched to those nutrients. He thinks of Eden, of the Garden and the _green_ , and of that East Wall. He thinks of Aziraphale, and that blasted flaming sword, that first thunderstorm, the ivory of his wings reaching into that ever-darkening night. He thinks of Aziraphale and his scrolls, Aziraphale and his cherubic smile, the glisten of his eyes, the sharp line of his collarbones occasionally peaking from behind the pristine robes of Heaven. He thinks of Aziraphale, _always_.

“Because I started it all.”

There is a polished stone in the pocket of his robes, the pads of his fingertips skimming over the surface when his thoughts stray, as the days stretch onwards. Another gift to bestow upon the angel, another reason to return.

It is not much, but it is something.

The man before him simply nods, rank locks of hair, grimy with sweat and gelled together with oils and sand, falling in front of his piercing gaze. He has clasped his hands before him now, is staring into those flames, and Crawly watches him, watches and watches and _waits_.

“Why do they call you Crawly?”

Crawly himself does not know. After he had clambered from the _tar_ , had felt each angelic fibre of his twist and _rot_ , the ichor that had swept through him bubbling to pitch. He felt the shift of scales and the flex of fangs, yellowed gaze staring up at Beelzebub, the Prince of Hell, and had been deemed _Crawly_.

Millenia later, it was the _Serpent of Eden_.

Millenia after that, it was _oh, you wily old snake_.

He looks to Jesus, the infection of his gaze, he knows, glowing in the dim of the desert, a false promise of heat, a burning of _misery_ and nothing else, as the silence drags on. He finds himself unable to speak, to break it, feels any response choke and wither within his throat, lodge there in the delicate tissue and sear away, a burn of emotion left in its wake. Helplessly, he shakes his head, breathes harshly through his nose.

Jesus stands, rings the campfire and comes to crouch before the demon, eyes kind, as he reaches for his dangerous companion’s hand, grasps it between the weathered press of his own. His fingernails are caked with dirt, his skin is flaking, but his hold is soft, gentle. With a calloused thumb, dragging along the heartline, he looks up and says with such finality,

“You are no _snake_.”

The demon almost laughs, can feel the unexpectedness of it tapping at his teeth, the bark of it catching in his throat. A snake he most certainly _is_ , black and venomous and _writhing_ , a beast of a thing with ivory fangs and glistening scales. Something to be feared, something to _behold_.

But there is an understanding in the man’s gaze, that this name, the name that had been thrusted upon him, it did not _suit_. It did not shift and change with the ease of the demon’s form, it did not nestle within the slide of his scales, nor the soft give of his flesh. It did not cascade down the tumble of his scarlet hair, nor did it tuck into the curl of his grin.

A lick of rebellion sparks deep in the cavity of his chest, kindles and _burns_ , ever the renegade, ever a _contradiction_.

“Crowley,” he says, eventually, voice firm.

And Jesus smiles at him, gives a tilt of his head and then a final nod, before returning to his side of the flames, closing his eyes against the velvet dark that hangs so heavy above them. The Son of God rests, and Crowley, the demon sent to tempt him, hopes that this man will not remember him in nine days times.

Crowley hopes, that once the temptation is complete, and the scrawny human before him can eat once more, and drink once more, that perhaps, he could show him all the kingdoms of the world.

Afterall, he’s a carpenter from Galilee, his travel opportunities are limited.

.

.

Aziraphale’s expression is grim, hands clasped in his lap, the gold of his ring twirling in the light of Heaven. He is seated, posture rigid, as he looks back at Crowley. Silence is laced between them, woven through with tension, the demon with his back pressed against the wall, picking at the hide of his mattress.

Once he had returned from the desert, completed the Temptation of Christ, once he had stumbled his way back into Heaven and to Aziraphale’s quarters, the angel had greeted him with surprise, a grin lighting up his features as the demon had collapsed onto his well-missed bed.

“Crawly!” Aziraphale had exclaimed, taking a seat immediately.

There had been no discussion as to why he had up and left, just an infernal scroll that had smouldered between them, the instructions disappearing as Crowley retained them. That had been over forty days ago.

“Oh, I’ve changed it,” Crowley had rasped casually, rubbing roughly at his tangle of hair, eyes drifting to the ceiling, fingers fiddling with the polished stone still in his pocket, (he would leave it for Aziraphale to find later, tucked beneath a scroll, or behind a vase).

“Changed what?” Aziraphale had asked, slightly breathless, brows drawing together, lips ever so slightly pouting in confusion.

“My name,” Crowley responded, “ _Crawly_ , wasn’t really doing it for me. It was a bit too _squirming-at-your-feetish_.”

And he could see in the angel’s expression that he wanted to voice the obvious, could see it dancing along the pink of his tongue as it quickly swiped along his bottom lip, the declaration that, well, Crowley _was_ a snake.

Instead, Aziraphale had settled with,

“So, what is it now? Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?” And there was something teasing in his tone, a tinge to it that Crowley couldn’t help but notice, could only attempt to _stifle_ the delight that wormed into the very depths of him.

“Crowley,” he replied, keeping it short and to the point, thankful that Aziraphale only acknowledged it with a raise of his brows, a tilt of his head, and a thoughtful expression. From that moment on, they did not discuss Crowley’s time away, they did not discuss the carpenter from Galilee.

Until now.

Aziraphale seems as if he is painted with _wariness_ , locked in his chambers with a caged animal. And it isn’t so far off, Crowley considers, as he feels the sharp cut of his canines slide along his tongue, the flex of his muscles, the shift of his spine pressed against the cool wall of the quarters. The infection-gold of his eyes stare at the desk opposite of him, the gaze of them briefly catching on the polished pebble resting on the surface, tucked next to a vase of blooms.

“Surprised you haven’t gone to smirk at the poor bugger,” Crowley idly comments, swiping a hand over his features, briefly scrubbing at the bridge of his nose.

“ _Smirk_ , me?” Aziraphale replies, his voice quiet, innocuous.

“Well, your lot put him on there,” is the demon’s flippant response.

As expected, the news had travelled the Scare Floor, each angel and demon informed of the fate of the Almighty’s son, of his untimely demise, of the _crucifixion_. The chatter had been immense, a _drone_ throughout the entire hall, discussion of the Great Plan prominent throughout.

“I’m not consulted on policy decisions, Crowley,” Aziraphale chides, a hint of frustration seeping into his tone, exasperation, that stubbornness of his ever present, until he is softening once more, making eye contact with the demon and asking, “Did you, ah, ever meet him?”

Crowley gives a nod, exhales a frustrated sigh of his own when he thinks of that desert, of that man, a martyr through and through. Sitting here now, this ending seems inevitable, something the demon should have been able to see, watching the messiah cross the dunes of that God-forsaken desert.

“What was it that he said that go everyone so upset?” He asks, confident that he already has an idea of the answer, knows the way of humans, of their ferocity and violence.

“Be kind to each other,” the angel retells, glumly almost, a hint of exasperation caressing the consonants.

“Oh yeah, that’ll do it,” Crowley breathes, looking at the angel, taking in the sag of his shoulders, a resignation to wills of Heaven sitting heavy upon his sternum. His gaze has drifted far away, eyes going glassy, as if he is in deep reflection. It has Crowley clearing his throat, snagging the angel’s attention, dragging him away from his dark and perilous thoughts.

“You know, angel,” Crowley beginnings, head lolling to the side, cheek pressed flat against his pillow, “You never told me what was going on, back here, while I was away.”

The Scare Floor had been back, up and running, when Crowley had returned, everything in full swing. Heaven’s lights had been waning, but the screaming wails of children’s terror, the sheer anguish that greeted him upon his return, was a promise that the halls would soon be dazzling in white.

Aziraphale and himself had settled back into their routine, flawlessly, had continued on as if nothing were amiss, as if Crowley had not upped and disappeared.

“Did Gabriel permit you some leave?” He asks, now frowning as Aziraphale shifts in his seat, blue eyes darting around the chambers, never landing, never settling. It causes Crowley to leverage himself up onto one arm, a knot writhing within his stomach.

“Ah, yes, well,” Aziraphale stutters, palms briefly swiping at his thighs, “N-not exactly.”

The tension is _thick_ , the suspense hanging heavy in the air as Crowley continues to stare, jaw briefly clenching as he attempts to comprehend what may have occurred whilst he was away, the lurch he seemingly left Aziraphale in.

“Gabriel, didn’t quite _understand_ , that you’d been called away on other _business_ ,” Aziraphale explains, and Crowley catches, with amusement, the slight roll of the angel’s eyes, “Your quotas, well, they still needed to be met.”

“And? How did you manage that?” Crowley croaks, Hastur briefly flittering through his mind, horror shuddering through his frame at the mere _thought_ of Aziraphale owing that _particular_ Duke of Hell a favour.

Aziraphale straightens, clears his throat, fusses slightly at his robes, the hem of them kissing at the delicate skin of his ankles, before he meets Crowley’s gaze, steel laced through the cobalt of his eyes. Crowley feels a prickle along his arms, hairs standing on end, at the sudden determination, the slight _pride_ , he sees within the angel before him.

“Well, I, of course, went through the doors, dear boy.”

It startles a laugh of delight out of Crowley, a sharp bark of amusement, that seemingly sends Aziraphale into his own fit of giggles, hands fluttering at his sides as if he were about to clutch at his ribs. The fluff of his hair is seemingly glowing in the light, Aziraphale’s smile so astounding it’s _radiant_. 

“ _You_ made children laugh?” Crowley teases, cheeks aching as they accommodate a home for his grin, for his _joy_.

There is mischief blooming in Aziraphale’s eyes, laughter dancing there in the depths, as he straightens once more, attempts some decorum of sobriety, brows tugging into a frown, even as his lips wiggle with a supressed smile, 

“Well… Not as successfully as I had hoped,” He concedes, looking away now, as he sheepishly admits, “Your numbers may have significantly dropped.”

And Crowley, he laughs until his chest _aches_ , Aziraphale tittering away alongside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally able to refer to Crowley as Crowley and it's such a relief.  
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter, I know i certainly enjoyed writing it, and I appreciate all of your support.


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